


Need

by Lokaal



Series: Trust [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (sort of), Explicit Sexual Content, It has a little plot, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 19:32:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9622433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lokaal/pseuds/Lokaal
Summary: A few days after arriving in Vergen, Iorveth needs to take his frustration out on someone.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I know I said I wasn't going to continue Feral, but here we are. More Gerveth. You don't need to have read the first part, but it does continue from there.

There were certain guarantees when it came to dwarven inns. The first was, of course, dwarves and the raucous chatter and booming laughter that accompanied them. Another was the ale, dark and strong and threatening to burn the back of one’s throat. The last was the brawling. If nothing else, dwarves loved a good fight. Out of the corner of Geralt’s eye, he could see the makeshift ring and the current fighters at the back of the Cauldron, Vergen’s sole inn. 

Seated opposite Dandelion and Zoltan, Geralt at least had good company for the evening. Zoltan was muttering quietly about the state of Vergen’s militia, and how he was having to, “Force those bloody ploughers to do what they’re told!”

Geralt watched him ramble with amusement, and when Zoltan seemed to have his fill of complaining, the witcher chuckled quietly. “You’re actually enjoying it, aren’t you, Zoltan?”

“You better bet I am. I’ve not had this much fun since –well, let’s just say it’s good to be giving out instructions and swinging this old thing again,” the dwarf boomed a laugh, patting the axe still at his hip. 

“You’ve been doing it only a few days,” Dandelion sipped at his ale, glancing at Geralt over the rim of the tankard. “You never know, the charm might wear off sooner than expected.” 

Zoltan scoffed, not catching a deeper meaning to Dandelion’s words. Geralt titled his head somewhat, watching his old friend. Perhaps it was the insistent chatter and buzz of the inn getting to him, but Geralt could have sworn Dandelion was trying to make a point. A point which, as far as Geralt could guess, wasn’t going to end favorably. 

“Something you want to say, Dandelion?” Geralt focused on him, measuring his reaction. 

“‘Course not. I would simply say it if I did.” 

“No,” Zoltan was glancing between them, the lines on his brow deepening with a frown. “You probably wouldn’t. I’ll leave you lads to sort, uh, whatever this is out,” draining his tankard, spilling some amber liquid down his bearded chin in the process, Zoltan then stood. “I’ve got a bone to pick with the innkeeper about this ‘extra charge’ he keeps threatening me with, anyway.” 

Once Zoltan was out of earshot, Dandelion leaned forward, nearly knocking over his tankard in the process. He whispered like a school kid with a secret, “Did you seriously want me to say it front of Zoltan? I’m sure he’d have a good laugh and then not care, but do you want it spread–” 

“Dandelion,” Geralt held up his hand, cutting off the rapid stream of words. “Explain. What, _exactly_ , don’t I want spread?” 

“You and–” a pair of dwarves sauntered past their table, causing Dandelion to pause, then continue with a lowered voice, “You and Iorveth.” 

Now Geralt knew where this was going. Folding his arms across his chest, Geralt leaned back in his chair. “It’s not what you think.” He and Iorveth hadn’t spoken about what happened that night. Since arriving in Vergen and since Saskia fell ill, they had hardly talked at all save for when it was necessary. There was a new bitterness to Iorveth after seeing Saskia collapse with the poison. Geralt had heard rumors, but had yet to broach the subject with Iorveth. 

“It isn’t? Look, Geralt, I don’t care who you bed. But he’s a scoia’tael.” 

“We’re supposed to be getting along with the scoia’tael, remember?” 

“I know, I know, they just make me a little –uneasy. And Iorveth… he’s dangerous.” 

Geralt paused as the pieces fell into place. “You’re concerned.” 

“Gera–” 

“You’re worried that I’ll get myself hurt,” Geralt could barely contain his amusement. Dandelion didn’t seem the type to get worried about such things, yet here he was, glaring at Geralt with annoyed embarrassment. 

“Now, I didn’t say that–”

“You didn’t have to.” 

Sighing, Dandelion held his hands up in defeat. “Whatever you say, just as long as you know what you’re doing.” 

“ _Dandelion_.” 

“Alright! My nose is out of your business, I promise.” 

It wasn’t long after that _intriguing_ conversation that Geralt retired to his room. Leaving Dandelion, and passing Zoltan –who was either in the process of arguing with the innkeeper or telling him a thrilling story, Geralt wasn’t sure which– Geralt made his way upstairs. His room was located at the very back, and above the quietest part of the common room below. He could still hear the hum of the inn’s occupants, but knew how to block such sound out. He didn’t need to sleep yet, or hardly at all, and once changed out of his armor, settled down to meditate instead. He had to find Cecil in the morning, to inquire about the mines and the possibility of finding the dwarven immortelle.

Geralt’s mind was briefly clear of those concerns as he slipped into his meditative state. He always believed his senses were still keen enough to be aware of anything going on around him. When the predetermined amount of time past and he came back to himself, something was amiss. The air smelt different, both candles he hadn’t lit and another person, and there was a presence to one side of him. Head snapping to the side, his readiness to fight rapidly dissipated. Across the small room from where Geralt was seated on the bed, on the other side of the small table and chairs, a figure sat in the window. Geralt glanced at the door, finding it still locked and bolted like he left it. The window, closed and overlooking the sloped street below, was two stories tall. Iorveth sat comfortably, unworried by Geralt’s amused bewilderment, one leg braced against the window and the other hanging down casually, swinging slightly. His bow rested against the wall behind him, as did his quiver of arrows. 

“How’d you get in?” Geralt asked, unfolding his legs and pushing himself off the bed. 

“Aren’t I a _‘squirrel’_?” The reply was sneered, but the bitterness wasn’t aimed at Geralt. Iorveth didn’t look away from whatever he was watching below, and Geralt moved to his side. He peered out the window, seeing nothing of note. The night had plunged Vergen into full darkness, the only lights the scant torches glowing orange and yellow. The sky was so dark it blotted out the moon and stars, and seemed likely to douse them in rain.

“Still doesn’t explain it,” shrugging, Geralt stepped to the table and leaned against it, arms folded. Iorveth hadn’t sought him out in days, now he appeared seemingly out of thin air. Something was on his mind. “Iorveth.”

“It’s not what you think, Gwynbleidd,” Iorveth claimed, continuing to not look at Geralt. 

“I’ve been hearing rumors.” 

Iorveth scoffed. “Rumors are seldom true, you of all people should know that.” 

“So this has nothing do with Saskia?” 

“I’ve known her for a long time, and I fear for her life. What more do you want of me?” Iorveth finally shot him a glower. “You yourself have a paramour.” 

“Interesting choice of word.” 

Iorveth shook his head faintly, swearing to himself in the Elder Speech. He glanced back to the window, then slid down and moved to take his bow. “This was a waste of time.” 

Geralt held a hand up, signaling for him to wait. Iorveth fixed him with a scowl, but halted and said nothing. “You came here for a reason,” Geralt suggested, feeling like he was about to start wrestling with a bear. “Tell me.” 

“What, witcher, you want to be privy to my thoughts now as well as my cock?” Iorveth spat, teeth bared in a snarl. He paused, realizing what he said, then ran his hand down the lower half of his face in regret. “This wasn’t why I came here, believe me.” 

It didn’t take Geralt much to guess that. “Uh-huh. You’re frustrated with Saskia’s situation and don’t have any other outlet. You can’t yell at your men, the town is already at boiling point. You have no one else; thus, I get to be the lucky fellow.” 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Iorveth laughed bitterly. “That would be one way of putting it, yes.” 

Geralt went to the sole chest in the room, and pulled out a bottle of something. Iorveth was sitting down at the table when Geralt returned, “I could get a cup–?” He stopped when Iorveth held out his hand. Giving him the bottle, Geralt watched with entertainment as Iorveth forcefully removed the cork and took a deep gulp straight from the bottle. 

Coughing and choking, Iorveth spluttered, “What _is_ that?” 

Chuckling as he sat, Geralt shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.” 

“It _burns_.” 

Taking it off him, Geralt took a swig as well. He had a similar reaction, though not quite as bad, having been expecting it. “Worse than dwarven ale.” 

“Worse than dwarven ale,” Iorveth laughed, fully and openly. It wasn’t often such a laugh came out of Iorveth, especially as it no longer held malice or contempt. 

“Is this better than shouting at me?” Geralt queried, handing the bottle over when Iorveth reached for it. 

“Yes. But, I can think of something else that would be even better,” with those words, Iorveth’s tongue rang over the rim of the bottle’s mouth, his eye holding contact with Geralt’s. 

“Really? That’s the other reason you came here, then?” 

Iorveth shrugged. He certainly wasn’t coy about what he wanted. “Speaking of, I had an interesting encounter with your dh’oine friend earlier today.” 

Geralt sighed. “ _Dandelion_. What did he say?” 

“Nothing. We were walking toward one another along the same street, he took one look at me, turned the other way and ran.” 

“Now I’m the one that needs a drink,” Geralt muttered, taking the bottle back. It wasn’t any better the second time. He drank deeply, then hissed afterward as the liquid went like fire down his throat. “He should be fine now.” 

“‘Should be’?”

“Suffice it to say, we had a talk.”

Iorveth studied him for a moment, then shook his head. “You can keep that conversation to yourself, Gwynbleidd.” 

Much of the night passed like that, the bottle being passed between them as frequently as their quips and good humored sneers. Iorveth’s bout of anger and frustration seemed to have passed, though he was still full of snarky comments and smiles that looked like snarls. Judging by the quietening of the common room on the floor below, their talking went on well into the night. Toward the end, Iorveth’s leg was pushing against his, his knee in between both of Geralt’s. Neither of them were drunk, but the alcohol had taken any hard edges away from their interactions. They were both still in control of themselves and their minds, and when Geralt stood, he pulled himself away from Iorveth fully. Iorveth stayed seated, watching him intently and hungrily. 

“Do you want this?” Geralt asked, backing toward the bed. They hadn’t done anything since that first night, and even if they were more familiar with each other and each other’s company now, Geralt wanted to be certain. 

Abandoning the half empty bottle on the table, Iorveth made his way around the table like a stalking predator. Geralt barely had time to move before Iorveth was upon him, the kiss forceful and demanding. He tasted like whatever was in the bottle, the hard edge to it almost complimenting the way Iorveth bit at him. When Iorveth began clawing at Geralt’s waistband, Geralt chuckled into the kiss and gripped his wrists. Iorveth began to fight being held back and broke the contact, glowering darkly at Geralt. 

“We have all night,” Geralt assured him, letting go of Iorveth when the elf gave a harder tug. “Tearing my clothes off isn’t necessary.” 

Snorting, Iorveth went to kiss him again and was stopped as Geralt reached up to the back of his head. Iorveth froze, single eye darting between both of Geralt’s. As Iorveth made no move to stop him, Geralt untied his customary red bandana and removed it slowly. Iorveth’s jaw tightened, but he still made no move to stop this. Geralt wasn’t worried about the angry red scar or lack of one eye, Iorveth was still Iorveth. Abandoning the headscarf on the floor, Geralt took Iorveth’s face between both his hands and kissed him. Geralt controlled the contact that time, taking it slowly, letting the touch deepen naturally. Iorveth’s hands had found their way just under Geralt’s shirt, resting on his narrow hips and pulling their bodies flush together. Pulling away only enough to start kissing down Iorveth’s throat, Geralt guided Iorveth’s head back to allow him access. No matter how headstrong and stubborn Iorveth was, Geralt noted, the elf did have a small tendency to let Geralt have his way. He didn’t dare mentioned it to Iorveth –he valued his hide more than that. 

“You’re going to have to take this armor off,” Geralt mumbled against the elf’s neck, have reached the line of leather and fur. He stood straight, taking his hands away after another brief kiss. Geralt sat on the edge of the bed, and watched Iorveth flick the buckles and undo the ties. He was brought back to their last –and so far only– time together, as Iorveth stripped with the same self-assured shamelessness, lacking any purposeful allure but somehow still filling Geralt with desire. 

Soon standing before him, naked and half hard, Iorveth examined him with a sort of scrutiny Geralt couldn’t name. After a few moments, Geralt began untying the front of his casual shirt. Iorveth was suddenly looming over him, swatting his hands away. As Iorveth was distracted, Geralt indulged in running his thumbs over the elf’s hip bones in gentle, leisurely swipes. Iorveth purposefully ignored him, making Geralt move his hands away when he pulled the shirt up and off. Leaning back on the palm of his hands, Geralt finally let Iorveth have his way and untie Geralt’s breeches without distraction. Iorveth occasionally leaned further down and pressed kisses against the flat of Geralt’s abdomen. When it came time to remove the breeches, Geralt’s hips buckled upwards and Iorveth pulled them down. He yanked them off entirely, leaving them with the rest of their strewn clothing. 

“In the chest,” Geralt grunted as Iorveth went to climb on top of him. The elf took a moment to process the words, then was off to retrieve the oil. Geralt took his chance to lie properly on the bed, and smirked as Iorveth rejoined him. As usual, giving no pretenses about what he wanted, Iorveth was on the bed with him in a mere second, straddling Geralt’s hips. Knees on either side of Geralt’s waist, Iorveth leaned down and trailed a line of kisses down from Geralt’s mouth to the center of his chest. Moving back to his mouth, Iorveth was doing something Geralt couldn’t quite see. When he heard the pop of the cork in the bottle of oil, he understood. That didn’t stop his hips from jerking when a warm, strong hand slid over the underside of his cock. Gripping him and stroking, torturously slow, Iorveth rolled Geralt’s bottom lip between his teeth at the same time. 

After a few more pumps of his hand, Iorveth broke their kiss, breathing harder than Geralt was. He sort of sat up, readjusting his weight on Geralt. He slid his cock against Geralt’s, his hips buckling as he allowed himself much needed friction. Geralt’s hands rubbed up and down Iorveth’s thighs encouragingly, taking in the sight of the elf sliding them together. Heat coiled low in his stomach as he watched Iorveth slowly coming undone, the tension and concerns from earlier in the night gone from both his mind and body. His focus now was Geralt, and lust bringing them both so much pleasure. 

Iorveth removed his hand, groaning with the effort. Panting, he held a hand up for Geralt to wait. Yes, Iorveth definitely needed this. Gathering himself, Iorveth braced with one hand against Geralt’s chest and the other, slick already, slid low down his own body. A spike of lust shot up Geralt’s spine as he realized Iorveth was opening and readying himself. The elf’s head hung down, strands of dark brown hair concealing his face. Geralt pushing his hair away, cupping half of Iorveth’s face. In another movement Geralt recognized from last time, Iorveth sunk his teeth into Geralt’s palm. He didn’t draw blood, and the pain was closer to pleasure. When Iorveth met his gaze, teeth still on Geralt’s skin, Geralt felt his cock twitch and ache for contact. 

Iorveth pulled away slightly, and straightened. Taking Geralt in his hand, he stroked, then repositioned both of them. He pushed himself up, and then back down, the head of Geralt’s cock pressed against his entrance. “Iorveth,” Geralt choked his warning, knowing fully well that Iorveth probably wasn’t ready enough. Iorveth ignored his warning, lips pursed in concentration. Geralt stayed as still as he could, captivated as Iorveth took him in and pleasured himself. Iorveth’s back arched, and while he hadn’t reached Geralt’s base, he slid himself back up and down again. The movements were slow but measured, his sheer control impressive. Geralt let out his own moan as Iorveth took him all in, and then when Iorveth seemed comfortable and more at ease, Geralt rocked his hips slightly. Iorveth gave a throaty groan, encouraging Geralt. After a few more experimental thrusts, Geralt aims and finds Iorveth’s sweet spot. Taking by surprise, Iorveth’s strangled moan was muffled as he rolled his head back, loosing himself in the sensation. Knowing now, Geralt’s fingers dug into Iorveth’s hips, pulling Iorveth down as he thrust upward. Iorveth complied, moving with him, and soon they were rocking together. Skin against skin slapped, yet not quite as loud as the bed complaining and thumping. 

White on the edges of Geralt’s vision, he struggled to keep himself composed. Iorveth was the one who still them eventually, and moved Geralt’s hands down to his thighs. Iorveth was a mess, panting and sweating, leaking onto Geralt’s belly, but they weren’t done yet. Geralt was instructed to stay still as Iorveth began moving again, up and down, fucking Geralt into the bed. It wasn’t long before he had to brace both hands on Geralt’s chest and ground against his hips. His groans were more whines now, something animalistic about them. His eye was squeezed shut, his finger nails digging into Geralt’s skin and leaving angry looking marks. He seemed to radiate heat, making it spread through Geralt with welcome bliss. 

When Iorveth’s trembling became noticeably severe, Geralt’s hand slipped between them and began stroking. Iorveth pushed his hand away and did it himself, the sight more erotic than the witcher was able to express. He was so close to coming, that Iorveth’s sudden choking moan and tension threw him over the edge too. Their movements were both erratic and fitful, the need and ecstasy taking over. Heat, warmth and wet spilled over them, and Geralt pulled Iorveth’s head down. He pressed his mouth against Iorveth’s forehead, keeping him there and close as they finished. 

Iorveth breathed heavily as he let himself collapse against Geralt, burying his face in Geralt’s neck. Pulling out of Iorveth, Geralt simply lay in the afterglow, comfortable with the elf above him. This sort of action, the need for comfort, wasn’t one Geralt would have guessed to come from Iorveth, but he didn’t mention it. When Iorveth did removed himself, flopping with a thud and grunt onto the mattress beside Geralt, he looked half asleep. That reminded Geralt that he had no idea what the time of night was and he wondered if they had woken anyone. After a brief moment, he decided he didn’t care. That was their problem, not his. What he could hear was the repetitive thrumming of rain against the roof of the inn, and rivulets of water making their way down the sloped streets of Vergen. 

He got up and cleaned himself off, handing a cloth to Iorveth as he did so. He then extinguished the candles, blowing each of them out one by one before returning to the bed.

“Feel better?” Geralt asked softly as he lay back down. Iorveth grunted, eye closed and body relaxed. Geralt slipped an arm around him, and like he guessed, Iorveth leaned into the touch. Not that it mattered, because Iorveth was asleep within minutes. Geralt took longer to drift off, wondering when he and the scoia’tael leader had become so close.

***

Geralt guessed he had only been asleep a few hours when he woke and knew he had to get up. He gently pried himself off Iorveth, trying not to disturb him. Donning his armor and strapping both swords securely to his back, Geralt then approached Iorveth. The elf was still asleep, but naked and covered in goosebumps. If nothing else, this was the most intimate act of trust. Sleeping, completely unaware, and having complete faith in Geralt not to harm him or let harm come to him –that was trust. For someone who had lived a long life of hate, fighting, betrayal and abuse, this was extraordinary. Iorveth had slept alongside him the first night, but not for long; in the small hours of the morning, Iorveth had dressed and left the cabin. This time, Iorveth seemed to be staying.

And Geralt was leaving. Sighing, he pulled one of the discarded blankets up and over Iorveth. Finally Iorveth stirred, just enough to look up at Geralt in sleep addled questioning. “I’ll be back later,” Geralt reassured him, wondering if Iorveth would even remember this when he woke fully. “Feel free to stay. I’m locking the door.” He needn’t worry about locking Iorveth in; there were few places that could actually hold in the elf in if he was determined to escape. It was more to stop anyone else randomly walking in. 

Iorveth nodded slightly, and swatted at Geralt when he pressed a kiss to Iorveth’s brow. Chuckling, Geralt left him to return to sleep. Once outside the room, he locked it like he said, glancing around. There was no sign of Dandelion or anyone else. He didn’t particularly feel like explaining this, even if he shouldn’t have to. 

While it didn’t take much to track down Cecil, the dwarf had given him access to the mine but advised against going down there for a day. With so much rain last night and this morning, the mines were flooded. It was one thing to trek down there and retrieve what he needed: it was another entirely to swim. Geralt said he would wait until tomorrow then, and returned to the Cauldron around midmorning. Nobody acted oddly around him when he entered the inn, and he assumed either Iorveth hadn’t emerged or had left discreetly. Unlocking the door, he found the former to be true. 

Iorveth didn’t look up from where he sat at the small table. Laid out before him were parts of arrows and the tools he needed to craft them, and with deft hands he was attaching the feather ends to one of the narrow wooden shafts. He wore what Geralt knew went under his armor –green leggings and a loose, thin tunic. The most significant thing was, however, that Iorveth didn’t wear his bandana. 

Geralt didn’t say hello. “Have you eaten?” 

When Iorveth shook his head, Geralt left him momentarily. He asked the innkeeper to have someone leave two bowls outside his door. Returning to Iorveth, who seemed unconcerned and intent on finishing his arrows, Geralt shook his head and made a sound in the back of his throat. Iorveth still didn’t look at him. “What?” The elf demanded, clipping the feathers to shape. 

“You.” 

Iorveth just grunted and Geralt left him to it, removing his armor and swords. He barely had time to sit before there was a timid knock at the door. Geralt went to it, finding two bowls of stew on the ground, and picked them up. Iorveth finally glanced up, setting the arrow down and gratefully received the bowl. He dug in immediately. 

“Truthfully,” Geralt remarked, taking his food a little slower. “I’m surprised you stayed.”

Shrugging noncommittally, Iorveth pushed the conversation to different ground. “Where did you go?” 

Geralt explained what Cecil said about the mines, and how they would have to wait another day to retrieve the dwarven immortelle. He tried to measure Iorveth for a reaction; there was nothing. Perhaps a little annoyance, if you squinted, but there was nothing compared to how Iorveth would have reacted if he had been told last night. 

“About Saskia–” 

“The situation requires patience, I’m aware,” Iorveth cut him off with a growl. “The witch will keep her alive until we get everything.” 

“That wasn’t what I was doing to say.”

Iorveth didn’t seem to care. “Regardless, it doesn’t need said.” 

They ate the rest of their meal in silence. Once Geralt was done, he leaned back in his chair and studied Iorveth. It was pleasant to see him without armor on, and so relaxed. Sex had a way of doing that. Scratching his chin, Geralt found himself smirking as he regarded Iorveth work on the newest arrow. He couldn’t help himself. “Do you enjoy working with shafts?” 

Iorveth snorted, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards. “Crude, Gwynbleidd. And,” he held the arrow up in front of his eye, examining it before switching his gaze to Geralt. “You’re selling yourself a little _thin_.” 

It was Geralt’s turn to scoff. “And you called me crude.” 

After a few more moments of sitting under Iorveth’s contemplative scrutiny, Geralt pushed his chair back and made a move to get up. Iorveth was quicker. In an instant, he had dropped the arrow and was standing in front of Geralt, pushing him back down by the shoulders. Geralt complied, looking up curiously to see Iorveth’s steel look of resolve and want. “This is why you stayed, then?” Geralt chided jokingly, though he had no reason to complain. Iorveth’s nose wrinkled with a sneer, and he nimbly slid into Geralt’s lap, knees hanging down on either side of Geralt’s thighs. Geralt held back a grin, tilting his head to one side as Iorveth regarded him with amused disgust. 

“Something like that.” 

Running his hands over Iorveth’s legs, then up his tunic and onto the bare, hot warm skin of his waist, Geralt watched the elf’s reaction. Iorveth’s eye closed and his lips parted. Although they had sex, twice now, intimacy like this hadn’t been a part of either encounter. Iorveth’s hands, initially on Geralt’s shoulders, snaked up to bury his fingers in Geralt’s hair. His finger nails racked Geralt’s scalp as they came together in a kiss. It was tender at first, oddly so considering the dispositions of the men at either end, and developed into a fevered, lustful thing that had them nearly clawing at each other. Geralt’s hands had found their way down to Iorveth’s ass, pulling him closer and making him hum when Iorveth’s pelvis rolled against his. 

Geralt was the one who pulled away from the kiss, one of his hands now on Iorveth’s chest to stop him leaning back in. Too consumed by need to really notice, Iorveth simply watched him, waiting for his next move. Geralt’s hand slid up the elf’s chest, moving to his throat. A few weeks ago, Geralt would never have done this. Iorveth would have hit him, stabbed him, or worse. Yet now, Iorveth arched against the touch and lolled his head back, letting Geralt feel the pale pillar of his neck. The power of the man on top of him was immense, Geralt could feel it in his dense muscles and see it in the confidence in which he moved. Yet the trust here was even greater, he was letting someone touch arguably the most vulnerable part of him. One nick in the right place: you would bleed out within a minute. 

When Iorveth righted himself, Geralt’s touch extended up to his jaw. He gripped it harshly, making Iorveth’s characteristic growl and grimace surface. He was stilling allowing the manhandling, regardless of his guttural warning. Moving on from his jaw, Geralt slid his fingertips over Iorveth’s well-kissed lips. Iorveth took a hold of his wrist then, and slipped Geralt’s two middle fingers into his mouth. He sucked like he would something else, and held Geralt’s gaze while he did it. The upturned corners of Iorveth’s mouth didn’t escape Geralt’s notice; he was thoroughly enjoying himself. 

After a few more sucks, Iorveth’s mouth was on Geralt’s neck instead. Geralt rest his head against the chair’s backrest, holding Iorveth’s hips still as the elf feasted on his neck. Iorveth bit and nibbled, even going up to Geralt’s jaw and biting down harder –probably a sort of payback for before. It would leave a mark, but it hopefully will be hidden by his stubble. 

“You know,” Geralt murmured, “This would be more comfortable if we moved to the bed.” 

Iorveth huffed and pulled away slightly, breathing heavily. “Only if we lose the clothes.” 

“Wouldn’t have it another way.” 

They did just that, losing clothing piece by piece until they made it to the bed, naked. Geralt expected him to act like he had last night, full of impatience and with an intensity unlike anyone else could achieve. While he was still intense –Iorveth never wasn’t– there was a vastly different edge to it. Now they were at the bed, he let Geralt set the pace. Geralt decided to push him the other way to their previous encounters, taking everything slow and leisurely. From the kisses to the touches, Geralt bordered on gentle. He could feel Iorveth trembling through everything, wanting more. He had the self-restraint to wait. Having guided Iorveth to lie with his back on the bed, Geralt on top of him, he mumbled in the elf’s ear, promising that the payoff would be worth the wait. 

Geralt was beginning to wonder if Iorveth had ever been treated like this. He had made Iorveth all but melt into the bed with kisses, and now he loosened the elf, taking his time. Iorveth was looking ready to come apart, body covered in a thin sheen of sweat and his cock hard against his lower belly. He gripped onto the bed sheets as if for dear life, and keened loudly when Geralt removed his fingers. Every single of Iorveth’s actions seemed to go straight to Geralt’s own hardness. 

Geralt let Iorveth hook his legs around his hips and pull him closer as he loomed above the elf. He pressed against Iorveth’s entrance, but stayed there, listening to Iorveth whine. “ _Geralt_ ,” Iorveth rasped, too far gone to care about the noises he was making. Geralt wasn’t so cruel as to let Iorveth beg; he pushed carefully, gradually inside. Iorveth levered his hips against him, clouded by a new wave of lust. Geralt was heading the same way, but made sure he was fully in control at all times. He didn’t want this ending prematurely. 

Thrust after slow thrust, the world around them ceased to exist as they were joined. Geralt kissed Iorveth’s shoulders, collar bones, face; any patch of skin he could get at. Iorveth scratched at him, trying to do something, anything with his hands to stop him from touching himself. It did eventually end, Geralt reaching between their bellies and stroking Iorveth once. That was all it took, Iorveth’s small sounds of pleasure becoming a throaty cry as he lost himself to his orgasm. Geralt continued his steady thrusts, his own legs beginning to quiver with the effort. Forehead resting against Iorveth’s shoulder, he followed Iorveth to completion, the sensation overwhelming. 

He came back to himself as he felt a fingertip drawing circles on his arm. Pushing himself up on his elbows, he looked quizzically at Iorveth for a moment, then tried to kiss his cheek. Snorting, Iorveth didn’t really succeed in pushing him away, instead just making him miss and kiss just beneath his good eye instead. Iorveth made a disgusted face, and Geralt chuckled as he removed himself from the elf. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he stretched and realized that it was only midday. 

“Will you stay?” He queried after thinking his question through for a moment. Iorveth sat up and moved to him, sitting behind him. Geralt wasn’t expecting him to rest his head on his shoulder, but the touch was welcome. Iorveth’s warm brow pressed against the side of Geralt’s neck, and the two stayed like that for a few comfortable minutes. 

“If you’ll have me,” came the reply at last, mumbled and wistful. 

Geralt leaned back against him slightly, smiling. “Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> So I do have a vague idea about what I would do for a third (and probably final part) of this series if anyone is interested. It would probably take place when Geralt and Iorveth are traveling to Loc Muinne. 
> 
> Also I've been purposefully not bringing up sexuality, because I didn't want to make it a big thing in this story. And, honestly, I don't think any of these guys would care about that.


End file.
